Scars
by Velvet Nights and Satin Skies
Summary: Some scars take a lifetime to fade. Legolas and Amariel are nothing, mere orphan slaves. But when unexpected fortune takes them into Imaldris, as freed elves, how will they react? How can people who have been hurt their whole lives adapt to kindness? ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1: Do Not Trust

**A/N: I am so lazy. I really am. Why can't I concentrate on "Fellowship Of The Authors" and "Well Behaved Women"? I'm so, so, so, SO sorry. But I get inspired SO easily. So read this and tell me whether or not to delete it.**

**A/N 10/21/11: A small error was pointed out by the lovely Metoochocolate that interrupts the timeline. Consider it now fixed. PLEASE REVIEW!**

The moon peeked shyly from behind the gauzy gray clouds which shrouded the gritty yâvië skies. The sweeping boughes of tree branches dipped low to the thick grass, tangling and intermingling in a hidden dance. Sheltered by the boughes of trees from the wind, a campfire blazed merrily in the divet of ground, tongues of flames licking at dry twigs and thick, scaberous logs. Horses, their flanks sleek and gleaming in the faint light, tore at the sweet grasses, tails swishing contentedly as they devoured their dinner. A few of them were picketed, others were simply wrapped around the low-descending branches. Heavy packs were placed on the ground near the horses, but their bridles and saddles remained. Several sleeping rolls had been unfolded, and here and there masculine heads were visible, their shimmering hair fanned out over their travelling pillows. One sat awake, chewing idly at a grass stem as he gazed reflectively into the flames, keeping silent watch over his slumbering companions, scraping a hand on his roughly stubbled jaw.

Off to one side, a far different scene emerged, contrasting starkly to the peaceful serenity of the sleeping elves. Two young elves were bound to the thick trunk of a tree, their hands tied firmly behind their back. They were tethered by their ankles, fine silver chains keeping them hostage, far stronger than usual Man-fashioned rope. One of them, a thin ellon with matted blonde hair, was sleeping curled up close to the solid trunk of the tree, skinny back pressing hard against the unyielding surface. The cold earth seeped into his bones and made him shudder all over, icy fingers trailing down his spine. His tunic was ripped in several places, a stripe of old blood painting the side, and indescribably filthy. The leggings, or what remained of them, were in worse shape - they were worn completely through at the knees, exposing bruised kneecaps, and his feet were bare, the soles of his feet raw from running behind a horse all day. He twitched in his sleep.

To his left was an elleth, her hair dark and just as tangled. She was sitting erect and silent, slender, bruised fingers toying restlessly in her lap. She wore a skirt of some obscenely thin material, tattered at the hem, and her bodice had ribbons snapped from harsh removal. But the elves shockingly mistreated appearance was not what the eyes fell upon first - it was the searing scar, white with age, which ripped across the elleth's face, crossing both eyes. She was blinded, hampered from her mistakes. She swallowed hard, ignoring the gnawing hunger in her belly. To her right, her companion whimpered in his sleep, feet jerking spasmodically. The elleth groped for his leg and soothed it, patting it as high as she could reach. They were kept specifically apart, but somehow they had managed to migrate together, seeking comfort in the warmth of each other's bodies and the soothing touch of their hands.

Had the elleth been able to see, she would have marvelled at the sunrise slowly slipping over the horizon, the Valar once more dressing the skies in their most glorious finery. But as it was, she allowed the rising sunbeams to paint her face with warmth, the barest hint of dawn stroking the sky and waking her fully. She had not been able to sleep properly since she had been blinded - it was a curse that accompanied the constant pain. She shook her companion lightly. "Legolas, mellon," she whispered. "Legolas, it is time to rise."

Instantly the ellon was awake, eyes snapping open to reveal muddy blue, terrified eyes. After a split second of confusion, he remembered where he was. "Amariel?" he asked in a hushed, panicked voice. He reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly. A smile softened her scarred features as she felt his clammy grip.

"'Tis only one more day of hard riding, mellon," she said softly. "And then we shall be in Imaldris. You shall escape, and be home."

"Are you coming with me?" Legolas asked, not for the first time. Amariel looked at him sympathetically.

"Legolas, little leaf, I would only slow you. I cannot accompany you - you must be free. Nay, my mellon, I am here to escort you there and give you courage. No doubt I shall be given to some other lord - If I am less fortunate, I shall return to our home." Amariel said, gripping his fingers and then releasing. "Come, mellon, I hear a step."

Indeed, the one Man who had stayed awake was approaching them. He was handsome of features, with a broad chest and hard hands. He was their Master, Ceadda. "Get up," he said coldly. He tossed the key at Amariel - Masters did not kneel in the presence of their slaves. Amariel groped blindly at the ground, enticing a cruel smile from the slaver. "What, can't find it?" Ceadda asked, kicking the key to one side. "Come on, slave, find the key."

Amariel bit her tongue and finally found the smooth, slender barrel of the key. She fumbled for a moment, trying to find the keyhole, and when she did, she unlocked her companion. Legolas returned the favor mutely, and the two of them bowed before their Master. The Man grunted and took Legolas by the tunic, dragging him over to one of the horses. With routine swiftness, he bound the ellon's hands and tied him to the pommel of the saddle. The same treatment was given to Amariel, although to a different horse. She dipped her chin to her chest, keeping her scarred, sightless eyes downturned. The elves waited, frightened, as the men began a languid breakfast. The scent of food was assaulting their nostrils with spicy, heady scents, and Legolas tried not to salivate. They had not eaten since noon of yesterday, and his stomach was growling.

Not a crumb or a drop was saved for the slaves, and instead, the traders loaded their packs onto their horses. "One more day," Ceadda grumbled. "One more blasted day and we are rid of these accursed wares."

"We shall fetch a fine price for them," another said, this one with shaggy gray hair and a hooked nose. "And perhaps the elves can be convinced to buy a worthless slave or two."

"Nay. Those infernal creatures do not adhere to the slavery laws." Ceadda replied, settling himself on his horse. He gave his horse a quick jab, and Amariel was jerked forward roughly, a little cry of surprise tearing from her lips. He looked back at her, sneering. "Which is a pity, for she would have been fair of face had she not been blinded."

"Insolent eyes do not deserve to see," hissed the first Man. "And if they do not take the slaves, well, they shall provide ceaseless entertainment on our journey home."

There was an outburst of howls as the horses trotted quickly down the road, the two broken elves dragged along unmercifully behind them.

09

The path widened and became smoother, the largest rocks disappearing and aiding the elves bare feet. Dappled shade cooled their hot brows, and soon the riding became easier. Abruptly, the Men pulled up, stopping their mounts. Amariel and Legolas were not warned of the halt, and Legolas slammed into the horse, startling it and it's rider. A backhanded cuff disturbed a thread of filthy golden hair and stung his cheek. Legolas sniffed shamefacedly, looking over at his companion. She was breathing hard, wincing as pressure was applied to her bare feet. He looked up at the two granite faced elves looking at the troop of a dozen men and two elves. "State your business in Imaldris," one of them snapped. They were dressed in beautiful white cambric, their tunics fine and braided at the shoulders with gold thread. Gleaming gold bows were strung over their backs, intricately carved quivers fastened to their backs, and polished knives were belted to their hips.

"We come bringing wares to tempt the people of Rivendell," Ceadda said loudly, his commanding voice ringing over the trees. "We mean no harm at all, good friend. Do you wish to buy a trifle or two?"

The elves did not seem at all interested in the wares the men had, but instead were focusing in on Legolas and Amariel. "And of these elves, what of they?" the other guard asked, a frosty bite of anger in his voice.

"Slaves worthy of the Steward himself!" Ceadda said triumphantly. "Although we have few of them, they are well trained to be hardworking slaves. Our business, however, is in trinkets. Would you care to -"

"The only thing I care to do," growled the first elf, his knife unsheathed in an instant, "Is slice your miserable throat in two. You are not welcome in the borders of Imaldris, eadan, and you have no right to enslave these elves! They are free people and not under your reign."

"Ah, but they were sold to us," Ceadda said, startled. "I paid good money for them, lords."

"And you shall have none in return." snarled the other elf, his bow strung and an arrow notched to it. "You are to untie those elves and hand them to us immediately. Then, you shall leave and not return."

Slowly, Ceadda dismounted and went to Legolas. He deliberately ground the ellon's foot into the ground as he cut his bonds, and it was all Legolas could do not to cry out. He was shoved roughly forward, and the young blonde elf cringed away from the soothing hands of the guards. Amariel was cut loose as well, but she was kicked hard from behind, sending her sprawling. The bow-wielding elf shot an arrow between the feet of Ceadda. "The next goes in your chest!" he warned. "Leave!"

Amariel picked herself up, backing away warily from the two strange elves as her master's departed. A clod from a horse's shoe struck Legolas in the back, whether by accident or by design. However, the ellon showed no reaction. He huddled closer to Amariel, bowing low falteringly. "M-my Lords," he began.

"Call me Elrohir," the first elf said softly. "And do not bow to me. You are a free elf, and shall be treated as such."

"Why...?" Amariel looked terrified. Her fingers interwove with Legolas's. Her scarred, sightless, milky eyes trickled a single tear, which she scuffed away. "Do not trust, Legolas," she whispered. "Do not trust anyone save me. We are in Imaldris, a foreign place. Do not trust."


	2. Chapter 2: Is It Allowed?

**A/N: Well, I shall be continuing this fiction for now...Mostly because I just fell in love with Elrond all over again. He is absolutely amazing. Enjoy this silly little chapter.**

**WARNING: Torture injuries.**

Elrohir and Elladan conversed quietly as they strode through the Last Homely House, the sunlight carving through the windowpanes reflecting on their gleaming armor. They were startlingly alike, with high, proud foreheads, pale, beautiful features, and sharp, straight profiles. Dark eyes were equally unfathomable, thin lips identically pressed together in a thin, hard line. Elrohir was perhaps the slightest bit taller and a shade more slightly built, but it was a minute difference that did not take away from the eerie likeness of the two brothers. They were in fact twins, and this in itself was quite a rarity among Elves, seeing as they could only have children once every decade. Elladan, the subtly shorter and perhaps just a breath broader than his twin, spoke first. "I do not like it, brother," he murmured quietly, keeping his voice deliberately low so that the two Elves trailing behind them might not hear. "Have you seen them? They have not stopped gawking at their surroundings since we brought them here. How long do you think they have been enslaved?"

"Perhaps all their lives," Elrohir responded, his words more a breath than a voice. "And I feel pity for them. They have not bathed in many days, so it seems, and they are dangerously thin." He glanced behind him at the friends who were gathered close to each other like a pair of startled chicks. He noticed the blind elleth seemed to be leading the blond ellon, despite the obvious handicap of her lack of sight. The blond ellon seemed absolutely terrified, cowering with his head tucked to his chest and his shoulders drawn in convulsively. He flinched at the slightest sound, eyes that were cemented to the ground were wet with frightened tears. "Should we not make them more presentable before we show them to our father?" Elrohir whispered.

"Aye, that was my intention. Ada has a quick temper - I would not like to see it roused over some ignorant, uncouth Men." Elladan said. Elrohir tightened his grip on his sword hilt convulsively, glancing behind him again quickly.

"They have been shamefully treated," he growled, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. "And if you do not wish to see Ada's temper aroused, then you shall see mine. Indeed, 'twas all I could do not to take the head off that miserable man's neck the instant I saw that poor elleth."

"'Twould do no good to slaughter a band of slavers," Elladan said reasonably. "Although I see your point, it would be a wasted effort. Let them live - perhaps the shame of being turned away shall smart enough to keep them from weak quarry."

Amariel felt the cool, clammy touch of Legolas's fingers beneath hers as they tentatively followed the guards. They had insisted that they come with them, and Amariel's first thought was one of distrust. Her blindness had caused her to distrust everything, except Legolas, of course, and these two strange guards were no different. Their voices sounded similar, practically identical, and judging by their footsteps they were of similar weight. But although her ears were sharp, they could not tell her what her eyes could. If she had been able to see, she would have known for sure whether or not to trust these men, Elves though they were. It had been six-and-sixty years since she had been enslaved, and she had learned fast to trust nothing but herself and her friend. She remembered her own people, her own race, but the beautiful language of Elvish did not spring as readily to her lips as Common did. She was rough, undefined, and she was conscious of this the instant the guards had kindly inquired in Elvish as to her injuries. Her injuries pained her, but they were mere scrapes compared to her friend. Legolas had been to Mordor and back at the hands of these Men, and previous Masters. Somehow, despite their unfortunate circumstances, they had managed to stay close by one another.

Legolas was limping badly as he followed Amariel down the hallway. He tried to hide it, as he had been taught, but it was impossible to completely mask the pain in his eyes and the limp on his leg. The guards had tried to help, speaking to him in a familiar but relatively unknown language, and he had instantly shied from their touch. Amariel had made a little noise of anger in the back of her throat, similar to an angry cat, the they had backed off. Now he was being led through a large, sunny, spacious hallway, past open doors that beckoned with bright splashes of color and laughter. The walls were dark in color, true, but they were scrubbed clean of any mold or moss. It was an improvement, he decided - but still he did not let go of Amariel's hand. He trusted her implicitly, never wavering once. She had always been by him, ever since he was a babe, and those flowing syllables made sense to him. He would die before anything happened to her, and he knew she felt the same way about him. Still, he cowered - the guards were so grim. Were they going to be punished for trespassing through their lands? Instantly a wave of fear so powerful and tangible shook him to the core, and he stopped abruptly, burning tears blocking his vision and his throat.

Elrohir and Elladan looked behind them, pausing, confused, as the blond ellon began to whimper and shake. The blind elleth closed the distance between them, stroking his hair, tucking the matted strands behind an ear, murmuring quietly to him in Common Tongue. She stroked feather-light touches down his cheeks, cupping his chin, and Elladan distinctly heard a few mumbled phrases of Elvish intermingled with Common. He was stunned at the blond ellon's non response to her words. Was it possible that the elf didn't speak Elvish? He took a cautious step forward, and both slaves shrank instinctively away, the blinded elleth shifting her stance automatically to cover more of the frail blond ellon. "You have done no wrong," he assured them. "Come, we shall show you a place to bathe and clean up."

The elleth licked her lips dryly. A bath? Was that possible? The last bath, true bath, she had taken had been nigh on two years ago. She had improvised with a damp rag and streams in the meantime. And soap was an almost unheard of luxury - what were they playing at? Was this some new kind of torture - to offer then a bath, and then seize it at the last moment? This must be it, she decided. She took a reckless gamble, risking their wrath. "P-please, sirs, I have no desire to be toyed with," she said tremblingly. She flinched, expecting the blow which would always land on her right cheek, sometimes on the back of her head. But no blow came, and still she cringed.

Elladan was completely bewildered. Toyed with? "Lady, we are not toying with you. You both need to freshen yourself up, and I have no doubt you both had wounds to be treated. When all that is finished, you shall see Lord Elrond." He tried to sound soothing, but the elleth still cowered.

Ah, so that's where it lay! They were trying to make them look appealing for their Lord. Amariel swallowed hard, knees pressing together instinctively. She did not have the strength or the stamina to fight off a lascivious Lord, not when her wounds were so fresh and her body still aching from running. And she didn't think she had the courage to stand up to the guards, either, and deny the bath. Just the word was making her tremble giddily with anticipation. She decided then and there that she would undergo even the worst attack, if she could just get her hands on a washcloth and a bar of soap. Slowly, she took a step forward, interlacing her fingers with Legolas's. "Come, mellon-nin. Come, be strong for me. Be strong for me, little leaf." She managed to coax him out of his terrified spasm, and they began moving down the hallway again, this time at a much slower pace. Elrohir and Elladan exchanged stricken glances.

The young elves had more scars than they thought.

09

The bathroom was not large, not to the twin's eyes, but they heard the blond ellon gasp at the sight of the wooden tub. It was rustically simplistic, a bathroom for everyday use, with a sturdy wooden tub dominating one corner and several small racks of bathroom essentials covering the other side. A chamber pot was in the final corner, and the doorway completed the room. Several large towels had been stacked on the shelves, along with razors and hairbrushes, several different kinds of soap, and two dishes of scented oil, a mint one for ellyn, a lavender scent for ellith. Elrohir shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Nimrodel should be here soon with water for your bath," he said, clearing his throat slightly. "Please, feel free to use anything in the bathroom. If there is anything you desire, you need only to ask." The twins left, shutting the door with a sharp click behind them.

Legolas and Amariel stayed perfectly still - Legolas, out of shock, and Amariel because she didn't know the layout of the room. Legolas found his voice. "Why are they doing this?" he asked, his voice raspy and frightened. Amariel squeezed his hand.

"I don't know," she admitted. "They must have a meaning. Prepare yourself, Legolas, little one - I hear a step." The door was flung open recklessly, and a slender, smiling elleth with shimmering black hair came in, two heavy, dripping buckets in her hands. Steam was rising invitingly from them, and she dumped them both into the tub. She turned, taking in their wounds and filth at a glance, and her gaze shifted from cheerful business to gentle sympathy.

"Oh! Hello," she said uncertainly, and was dumbfounded when both Legolas and Amariel knelt, heads bowed. "Er, will that be enough for your bath, or will you require more?" She fumbled at the hem of her apron, completely astonished.

They said nothing, keeping their eyes trained on the cobblestone floors. Nimrodel rubbed the back of her neck, and then fled the room with a hasty "Goodbye!". Only after she left did Legolas and Amariel get up. Slowly, Amariel felt her way around the room. When her fingers touched the tub, then the water, she gasped as if burnt. "Legolas!" she breathed. "The water...it's _warm_!"

They wasted no time, stripping their dirty rags instantly, shedding the ragged clothes and piling them on the floor. As Legolas's tunic and leggings came off, his injuries became shockingly apparent. Red-and-purple stripes crossed his back and shoulders, and his left ankle was swollen and bruised. Wide black bruises crossed his ribs, showing where he had been thrown over the back of a horse roughly. A red welt, fresh, from a leather collar, had circled his neck, and there were numerous lacerations slicing across his dangerously pale skin. Scars intertwined, forming a hideous tapestry of pain and suffering - there were even several irregularly shaped scars that showed burns and bites. Every bone in his ribs were bared under his paper-thin skin, and every vertebrae was threatening to rupture through his dangerously thin body. He tested the waters, eyes instantly going wide when he felt the heat. He fumbled for a bar of soap, and then hesitated, freezing. "Is it...is it a test?" he said, voice hoarse and cracking. "Will they punish us if we use these?"

She was in the middle of trying to undo her bodice without ripping any more strings when she heard him, and her normally dexterous hands fumbled. Was it a test? "It might," she said slowly. "But at least we shall be clean."

It was an excellent point, and Legolas began slathering himself with soap, scrubbing his body fiercely. It stung when it came into contact with his many wounds, but the layers upon layers of filth, blood, and saliva were finally coming off. The water began turning a nasty, interesting shade of brownish-purple. Meanwhile, Amariel had disentangled herself from her bodice and tattered skirt, and stood unclothed in the slightly drafty bathroom. Her scars were deeper and more drastic - six lines, even and precise as though a surgeon had done them, marred the skin above her breasts. Her flat, hunger-hewed stomach was bruised harshly, the clear, solid imprint of a boot spelled out near her left hip. Thick, wide bruises were slashed across her thighs, showing where she had been hoisted into the air with ropes. As with Legolas, every rib was easily visible, and her neck also bore the signs of having a collar. Her back was scabbed and healing nicely - it had been almost two weeks since her last lashing, and her wounds were not as fresh as Legolas's. She fumbled around the bathroom for a moment, fingertips skating across surfaces, until she found a neatly-embroidered washcloth. She dipped it into Legolas's bathing water, using some of his soap, and began scrubbing herself. She had done this enough times to remember to carefully wash around her wounds instead of roughly scraping it across; she had learned much in sixty years.

They traded places within minutes - they had learned to be fast in everything they did - and soon Legolas was toweling himself off, trying to squeeze the excess dampness from his hair. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had washed his hair, and it felt so good to finally be rid of most of the dirt. The mats and snarls, however, were a different story. He used the wide-toothed comb, the ivory teeth sticking in his hair, but it was no use. It just seemed to make it worse. So instead he rolled it up at the base of his neck and tucked it into his shirt, like Amariel did. There was nothing to be done about their clothes, so he just put on his old ones, disliking the feel of his dirty rags sliding over his newly clean, rubbed-raw skin. He dared not touch the scented oils or the fancy perfumes - that was obviously reserved for others, servants perhaps, not slaves. He readied a towel for Amariel; after being so long in captivity, they were used to each other's nakedness. It did not seem as crude, as degrading, when she was washing herself, but when the soldiers who Amariel was forced to entertain stripped her, her very body seemed to blush.

Amariel and Legolas paused, unsure as to what to do, and finally they plucked up the courage to open the door. Elrohir and Elladan were waiting by the window, deep in conversation, but looked up instantly at the creak of the door. Elrohir's nose wrinkled. "No, no, no, no," he said, almost to himself, and regretted it right away. They both cowered, stepping backwards to gather themselves and make them seem smaller, and Legolas actually halfheartedly threw up a forearm to shield himself. "Nay, friend," Elrohir said soothingly. "I only meant to express my displeasure at the sight of your clothes. We must get you better clothing - what is the point of being clean only to put on dirty clothes again?" He turned to his brother. "Brother, could you go rouse Nimrodel once more and see if you can find some suitable clothes for the two of them?"

"Very well," Elladan said, and took off down the hallway, his quick footsteps making little noise on the smooth stone floors. Elrohir turned to the still-flinching slaves.

"You look much better," he said approvingly. "You are free now, not slaves. You are people, and you will be treated as such. I am called Elrohir, and my brother is Elladan. We are the sons of Elrond. This is Imaldris, or Rivendell, home of the Elves. Who are you?"

There was a long silence, and then Amariel began, her voice barely audible. "Sir, if I may speak?" she asked timidly. He was taken aback, but rallied quickly.

"Yes, child, speak. What is your name?" He was flabbergasted when she knelt and kissed the hem of his robe, and remained kneeling.

"They call me Amariel. I am from Lorien, if it pleases you, sir." she said, whispering. To her surprise, she felt him bringing her to her feet.

"Do not kneel before me, child. My name is Elrohir, not 'Sir'. You have a precious name, Lady Amariel. And who is your silent companion? Can he speak?" Elrohir asked, eyeing the fragile-looking blond with pity. The ellon quaked at being addressed, and dropped clumsily to his knees, also kissing the hem of Elrohir's robe.

"I-I am called Legolas, my Lord," he said, voice shaking as he trembled. Elrohir helped him to his feet as well, and grasped the elf by both shoulders. Right away, he stood stock still, eyes wide and terrified, as he froze internally.

"I am Elrohir, little one. Where do you hail from?" he asked. Legolas shook his head dumbly. Amariel came to his defense.

"If it pleases you -" she began falteringly. Elrohir, completely unaccustomed to his servile treatment, rolled his eyes.

"And what if it doesn't please me?" he said lightly. "Will you still tell me?"

"If your Lordship does not wish it," she said softly, "I shall not say what I was preparing to tell you." Elrohir waved a hand exasperatedly.

"Nay, nay, maiden, tell me what it is." Elrohir said, releasing Legolas at last. The blond ellon stepped away hurriedly, shivering.

"He is from Mirkwood, Lordship. At least, his mother was, so he must be of Mirkwood lineage." Amariel said, quaking inside. She had never been allowed to be so free of speech with anyone in almost seventy years. It was almost frightening. She couldn't imagine how Legolas felt, seeing as he remember practically nothing of civilian life.

Elladan came back with a stack of clothing piled in his arms. "Nimrodel has taken a short leave," he said, with a meaningful glance at his twin. "Here, I believe these should fit you fine. If they are too small or too large, we shall find you a better fit as soon as we can. Eventually, we shall have you fitted for clothes of your own." His mouth dropped open in stupefaction when both Amariel and Legolas knelt in front of him.

"Thank you," Legolas whispered. "Thank you, my Lord, thank you very much."

Elladan was speechless.


	3. Chapter 3: Lord Elrond

**A/N: Still plugging away at this fiction...Hope someone is reading it. **

Elladan turned to Legolas and handed him a stack of clean, freshly laundered clothes. "Here," he said softly, arching one eyebrow at the awed expression on Legolas's face. "You may change in the bathroom, if you wish," he said, clearing his throat slightly to disrupt Legolas from his reverie. The young ellon was running his hands over the smoothness of the clothes, feeling the almost invisible seams and the thickly lined interior to block against the cold. He blushed brilliantly red and ducked inside the bathroom, shedding his clothes almost before the door was closed. The filthy, ripped tunic was balled up and wrapped inside his frayed leggings. Elladan had even thoughtfully included a clean pair of breeches, so Legolas stood almost completely unclothed in the bathroom. He hesitated before he tugged on the breeches. Was this another test? The bath hadn't been a test, not so far. But would they hurt him later for dressing in such finery? There was no other option, he decided, and fastened the breeches around his waist. The clothes were small, but they hung pitifully from his wasted frame, sagging in places where he lacked meat and sinew. He couldn't believe his luck when he buckled and narrow, braided leather belt around his tunic. The tunic was of a simple, clean color blue, and the leggings were dark. His feet were bare, but he didn't care. The clothes felt so nice on his battered body, like a balm on a festering wound.

Amariel gaped at the hand-me-down skirt and bodice, running her hands over the firm ridges and silky ribbons of the bodice, fingering the heavy woolen skirt. She couldn't tell the color, but the texture was marvelous. She hadn't worn clothes this nice since...Almost seventy years ago. She stared at the floor, fighting the tears that were welling in her scarred eyes. "My lords," she faltered. "What do I need to do to repay you? Name your price, my lords, please."

"Lady Amariel, there is no need," Elrohir said, tipping her chin back. "Please, Nimrodel will assist you in dressing. There is no need to be thankful - the clothes are old enough as it is."

Amariel hugged the clothes to herself, plunging her fingers amid the stiff fabric, still amazed by the generosity of the elves. But she sensed a trap, like a rabbit about to be snared. There had to be a catch. A bath, new clothes, what next? No doubt she would have to _entertain_ their Lord Elrond later that evening, but if the treatment was good she decided she would be able to bear it. Her sensitive ears picked up the sound of a light footstep approaching, and Elladan greeted Nimrodel warmly. "Nimrodel, little one, could you assist Lady Amariel in dressing? Bodices that fasten behind are impossible to tighten by one's self." There was an automatic smile in his voice when he addressed Nimrodel, and Amariel wondered if he was fond of her. In her experience, it was more dangerous to be liked by a man than to be hated. Nimrodel forced a smile, still unnerved by Amariel and Legolas's bizarre behavior.

"Of course," she said, and opened the bathroom door. Legolas came out, smoothing the front of his tunic self-consciously. His clothes hung awkwardly on his frame, making him seem slightly pathetic. But the part the twins were staring at were his arms. The tunic fell to the elbow, leaving the forearms exposed - and in Legolas's case, leaving his brutally chafed wrists and bruised forearms open for scrutiny. Running behind a horse was not easy, and for a good three inches above his wrist he was chafed enough to bleed. He tugged at the sleeves to cover it, shame coloring his cheeks. Nimrodel helped Amariel inside, mouth open in horror. The twins immediately converged on Legolas, examining him carefully for any other bruises. Amariel longed to help, but the sound of their voices was shut out by the closing of the door. "If you'll give me your old clothes, I can burn them," Nimrodel said, wrinkling her pretty little nose at the sight of Amariel's tattered clothes. "I don't think you can get much use out of them anymore."

Bit by bit, Amariel's body was revealed, the bruises and cuts emerging like terrible actors performing a hideous play. Nimrodel covered her mouth with her hands when the boot-shaped bruise was uncovered, and tears sprang to her eyes when she saw the neat, deep scars above her breasts. The urge to hug the older elleth came hard and fast, and Nimrodel fought the urge with difficulty. The poor thing would no doubt be even more terrified if Nimrodel touched her. Amariel began slipping into the warm woolen socks, and then stopped. She struggled with herself internally, debating the same thing Legolas did. Would she be punished for putting on airs? She tossed aside the idea recklessly and allowed Nimrodel to fasten her skirt behind her. The skirt was a simple gray item, and would have looked very nice on her if Amariel had any meat on her bones. As it was, she looked like a child playing in her mother's clothes. The bodice was a cream color, and Nimrodel began fastening the ribbons, hands faltering as she closed the sights of Amariel's battered, bruised, thin back from the eyes. When she was finished, Nimrodel reached for a comb and began attempting to comb the mats and snarls from her hair with limited success. Amariel stilled her hands.

"Your Master..." she began, fighting with herself on how to pose this question. "What does he use?"

"I - I'm afraid I don't understand," Nimrodel said, confused. Amariel played with her bruised fingers in her lap restlessly.

"Does he use a belt, his hands, a whip, what? What does he use to punish you?" Amariel asked. The question shocked Nimrodel beyond comprehension, but the flat, expressionless tone in Amariel's voice made her want to cry.

"I have never seen Lord Elrond lay a finger on anyone," Nimrodel said truthfully. "Save perhaps spanking his daughter, Arwen, when she has done some naughty thing, and that was only when she was a babe. He is very firm with his children, but a patient man. I promise you, he will not hurt you."

The words made no impact on Amariel. She had been promised that before, and it had always been broken. She stopped Nimrodel from brushing her hair yet again, and gathered it at the nape of her neck, tucking it into her tunic. When she stood up, she held her hand out automatically, looking for a clue as to where the door was located. The sight of that hand, split on the palm, groping innocently for something stable, had a curious effect on Nimrodel. The young elleth burst into tears and helped Amariel out the door, still crying. How could someone have been so hurt and still be living? Elladan instantly was at Nimrodel's side. He knew what she was crying about, and he comforted her with a gentle touch to her arm. "Strength, little one," he murmured. "Strength. Come with us, I wish you to speak with Ada about our newcomers."

* * *

><p>Legolas and Amariel gripped each other's hands as they waited outside Elrond's study door. Elrohir had gone inside, leaving Elladan and Nimrodel to keep watch over the battered elves and make sure no further harm came to them, either from themselves or each other. There was a long, poignant silence in which no-one spoke, none of them wishing to speak first. Legolas and Amariel knew their place; slaves did not speak unless spoken to, and Amariel had taken a very risky gamble in speaking to Nimrodel. However, she judged by the way Elrohir and Elladan asked her to fetch things, that she was a servant, perhaps a High Slave, or just a commoner. Amariel, thanks to her unnaturally sharp ears, heard footsteps approaching the door. After a moment, it swung open, and Elrohir's voice sounded. "Legolas, Amariel, come inside."<p>

Hesitantly, the two of them went forward, hearing the doors shut behind them. Legolas, having the gift of sight while he companion did not, gazed awestruck at the beautiful study. Books, of all shapes and sizes, lined the walls, perched on thick, solid oaken shelves. A massive desk, covered with neatly stacked scrolls and several sheets of flat paper, dominated the room. The carpet was of a rich crimson, deeper and somehow more heavy than any other red Legolas had seen. A stained glass window let in draughts of sunlight, flooding the room in brilliant golden light. In front of the desk was an elf, but unlike any elf Legolas had seen. He was tall and broad-chested, a firm, wise, noble profile, tall and somehow rather imposing. He was dressed in a silver-blue robe, knee length, with white leggings beneath it, and highly polished black boots. Instantly, Legolas and Amariel knelt, palms flat on the ground, legs crossed at the ankle. Elrond was taken aback, and exchanged a meaningful glance with Elrohir. "Friends, you may stand," he said, his voice impossibly rich and deep, thicker than a vat of chocolate and smoother than the glass of a mirror. He said this in Elvish, which Legolas did not understand, but Amariel stood, quaking, and helped Legolas to his feet. Elrond pierced Legolas with his wise, beautiful gray eyes, and Legolas drew instinctively closer to Amariel. "Does he not understand Elvish?" he asked worriedly.

"M-my Lord and Master, if I have won your pleasure, I will say thus: He does not know the tongue of his people, my lord, only the little I have been able to teach him. Our Masters did not approve of me conversing in a language they did not understand." Amariel said, flinching like a whipped dog. Elrond's brow rose. He examined Legolas with fresh interest.

"He reminds me of someone, although I know naught who," Elrond said, almost to himself. He then turned to Amariel, and tilted her chin back. At his touch, she gave little squeak and convulsed, shoulders drawing in as she tried to minimize the target. "Shh, child," he said, laying a soothing hand on her shoulder. "I shall not harm you." He allowed her a minute to gather herself, and then he examined her scarred eyes once more. The wound had been clumsily cleaned, most likely infectedbeen infected , but it was very old and white with age. It danced elusively across both eyes, ending with a ragged twirl near her temple, and she had been very fortunate it did not prevent her from opening her eyes. Whoever had blinded her had done it with a skillful hand. "Who blinded you, child?" he asked softly.

"Urrian, my former Master, my lord," Amariel whispered, drawing closer to Legolas. The blond ellon understood not a word of their conversation, but he gripped Amariel's hands tighter to ease his discomfort. "I deserved it, Master, I did. But please, I have learned my lesson, and I shall not displease you, I promise!"

"Shh, child, shh," Elrond said gently, turning her cheek with one finger. He patted her shoulder, wanting to do nothing more than crush them both in a hug, but knew they would be terrified if he did. "You have done nothing to displease me. No crime deserves the loss of sight, child. You are both free elves - I can promise that none shall harm you again."

The words had no ring of freedom to the elves. They had been promised freedom before, only to have it snatched from their grip. But Legolas, the younger of the two, felt the tiniest glimmer of hope. They had always had Masters who promised freedom, only if they did their work properly. Perhaps the work would be hard, but at least they had new clothes. And they were moderately clean.

Perhaps this Master would be different.


	4. Chapter 4: Stew

**A/N: Enjoy this chapter! Please review, to tell me what you think!**

Nimrodel was a very pretty elleth, Elrond thought as he leaned back in his study chair. She was slender and delicate, with large, slightly slanted blue eyes that twinkled when she laughed and rounded pink lips. Whenever she smiled, which was often, her eyes crinkled prettily and a dimple formed in her left cheek. Her hair was a peculiar chestnut brown color, tinted magnificently with reds and golds, and it usually roiled down her back in thick waves when it was unbound. Today, however, her hair was tied back in a rope and her smile was replaced by a knot of concern between her slim brows. She fidgeted slightly as she looked at Elrond, hands disappearing into the hidden pockets of her skirts. She wore tasteful, simple, modest clothes - a blue woolen skirt, to keep her warm for the upcoming winter, a white bodice, and a green corset. She looked, Elrond mused to himself, like a bluebell coming out in new spring. Her apron, which usually was tied firmly around her middle, was hanging on a hook by the door. It was stained and spotted by numerous spills and slips from the kitchens, dusted finely with flour and smeared with what looked like apricot jam in several places. Elrond stood, impassive gray eyes regarding the beautiful elleth with interest. "Nimrodel, what did the elleth say?" he asked, deep voice low and slightly rumbled.

Nimrodel pushed her hair away from her face, automatically tucking a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "She is very frightened, my lord," Nimrodel sighed. "She has…terrible markings. Bruises. Cuts. Nothing serious, from what she let me see, but there were many scars and some serious looking bruises that might need tending to by a healer, my lord." She opened her mouth to say more, and then shut it with a snap, licking her lips. Elrond turned to her, arching one eyebrow.

"Yes?" he said quietly. "What were you going to say, Nimrodel?"

She took a steadying breath. "Only…Only that she asked me if you struck any of us. I said no, sir," she added hastily, "But she wanted to know…wanted to know if you beat us, my lord, and if so, with what."

"She asked you that?" Elrond asked, bewildered. He had no idea about slavery; it was a disgusting practice which the elves of Imaldris have never taken part in. But to beat another elf, simply because they were mistaken in their orders or purely for entertainment value made his blood boil. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, gathering himself. When he resettled his thoughts, he turned to Elrohir. "Elrohir, what of the ellon?"

"He has bruises," Elrohir replied instantly, his dark eyes vengeful. "Many bruises, Ada, and some of them are fresh. I was only able to see his arms - he would not let me see more - but he bears signs of being bound and collared. Ada, if you will let me, I shall take a troop of warriors and find the men responsible for these actions -"

"There shall be no bloodshed," Elrond said firmly, overriding his son's energetic description of revenge. "These elves are safe now - we must work hard to show them that they have a place in society. Do not push them too hard, but you must bring them to me after they have eaten so I may examine their wounds. I want to be sure there is nothing serious, especially on the ellon - he limps as if his leg is troubling him. Now, Nimrodel," he turned to the pretty elleth, who hastily wiped a few stray tears from her eyes, "Bring our guests down to the kitchens to get some food. I understand it is slightly early for our midday meal, but they need to eat good, solid food as soon as possible."

Nimrodel curtsied quickly and left, wrapping her apron back around herself and knotting it around her slim hips. Elrond watched with detached amusement at the look on Elladan's face when he watched the subtle feminine sway of her hips. Putting this fact aside for later, Elrond kissed his sons and allowed them to depart. When he was alone in his study, he turned to the stained glass window and sighed, massaging his temple. The young ellon was broken, he could see it in his eyes - but the elleth still had a spark in her. The fact that the ellon - Legolas, what a curious name - could not speak Elvish was very troubling. He had never heard of an elf who couldn't speak Elvish. His thoughts turned to the girl - her instinctive flinch when he touched her, the way her head ducked instantly whenever he reached for her. And those eyes, Valar, those poor, scarred eyes. Urrinan must have had hands as steady as a surgeon to place such precise markings across her eyes without gouging them completely. The pain must have been hideous - but the scars were old. No doubt the elleth had them put there when she was naught but a child. He rubbed his eyes and looked out the window, wondering what she was doing now.

09

Amariel sniffed at the food suspiciously. It smelled like thick, rich meat stew, but there must have been some mistake. Slaves weren't allowed to have this much food, judging by the size of the bowl, and she couldn't remember the last time she had actually had _warm_ stew. Legolas, having the same doubts as she, leaned over to her. "Is it poisoned, do you think?" he asked worriedly, dipping a wooden spoon into the stew. It was thick and creamy, studded with hearty chunks of meat and a few shreds of celery, coupled with a cornbread dumpling dominating the center of his bowl. Slaves weren't allowed such fine food - could there have been a mistake? The elleth who gave them the stew looked friendly enough - she had two black braids gathered at the nape of her neck and dimpled, smiling features. She looked at them concernedly when she noticed neither of them had touched their delicious looking stew.

"Something wrong, love?" she asked Legolas, who was looking at his stew as if it had just called him an insulting name. Legolas looked up, frightened.

"M-my lady," he stammered. She smiled at him in a motherly fashion and clucked her tongue. She thanked the Valar that she still knew how to speak Common - who had ever heard of an elf who couldn't speak Elvish?

"My lady nothing! When you're as old as I am, little one, you'll start calling people their real names. Estella's good enough for me, child. What is it you want? Is the soup too hot?"

"Lady Estella, has there been a mistake?" Legolas asked shyly. "This soup…it's too good. We don't deserve it. Is there anyone else who wanted stew?"

Estella looked at him for a moment with her mouth slightly open, looking at the bruised young ellon with astonishment. "Love, this stew is for you," was all she could stutter out. "Eat it, it's good." When he opened his mouth to argue, her mother instincts kick in. "No, no, not another word. Eat it, both of you."

They took a tentative bite of soup, registering the wild, gamy taste of the meat which perfumed the stew. The dumpling was rich and deep, flavored with unrecognizable spices. More than that, the food was warm, and it formed a pocket of heat in his belly. He burned his tongue as he inhaled the stew, but he noticed Amariel was pushing her stew around her bowl, not really eating. "It's good," he whispered.

"I don't trust them," Amariel said quietly. "I'm not eating anything of their's until I know it isn't drugged." It was a common ploy - give the female slaves some fair-tasting good, but lace it with drugs so they would be sleepy and complacent. Estella, unfortunately for Amariel, heard this. She marched over and took the spoon from Amariel's hands, and took three mouthfuls of the stew. She didn't look angry, merely shocked that the girl would think the food was drugged.

"It's good food, love," Estella said firmly. "I wouldn't play with your food."

Amariel took a tentative bite of the stew.

09

Their rooms were connected, parted with a crimson curtain. On Amariel's side, there was a small chestnut nightstand with two drawers in it. A pale white candle in a brass holder was resting on the smooth surface; there was a bed with two quilts in the corner. The mattress was straw, much more comfortable than the ragged strips of cloth which served as a bed back in Mirkwood. A braided rug, colorfully dyed blue and red, lay on the floor by the bedstead. A window, facing out over an ambiguous green field, was on the eastern wall, which would no doubt be an excellent place for watching the rising sun. The door was solid oak, with a firm iron latch on it, which soothed her slightly.

Legolas's room was similar, except he didn't have a window. The rug on his floor was green and white instead of red and blue, and his dresser had three drawers, and was made out of oak. A book, bound in a red leather cover, was lying innocently on his bed. The quilts were faded but clean, simple earth tones striking out against the pale stone walls. The curtain which separated their rooms was dark green, heavy, and embroidered with gold thread at the bottom, depicting trailing ivy leaves and a sturdy oak tree with scrolling, twisted branches. Nimrodel offered a little smile to Legolas. "There are clean sheets on the bed," she said, "and Elrohir is working on getting you fresh clothes. For now, you can sleep in the tunic you have. When you wake up, I think Lord Elrond wishes to see you."

The young ellon sat down on the bed and touched the book. It was a slender tome, full of markings he didn't understand. "What is this book?" he asked, turning it over reverently in his hands. He had never been permitted to touch books at his various Master's houses - he knew his alphabet, in Common, of course, from Amariel sketching out the shapes in the dirt whenever he was sick or badly injured. They would do the best they could to stay near each other whenever the other was sick. If Legolas broke his ankle (he had three times, from various mistreatments), Amariel suddenly developed a raging fever and collapsed on the spot. They would huddle together, talking quietly as they "recovered", and was during these times she tried to teach him to read. But the symbols meant nothing to him - these were not Common runes, this was Elvish, a language she had tried to teach him and gotten whipped for.

"It's an Elvish dictionary," Nimrodel said, opening the book. "Elrond wishes you to learn Elvish. We'll arrange a tutor when you feel up to it, all right? For now, get some rest."

She left the room, watching him from out of the corner of her eye. He wasted no time in curling up in a ball and falling asleep, boots and all.

Amariel was standing in front of her window, nose almost pressed to the clear glass, touching the slick surface with her fingertips. "It's glass," she said hoarsely. Nimrodel came up to her, a sad little smile on her face.

"Yes, it's glass. And if you could see, you would see the pretty field behind the glass. It's fall, so the colors aren't as vivid, but in the springtime, all the blades of grass are glistening with dew and it's so green it makes your eyes hurt." Nimrodel said softly. She touched her elbow. "I wish you could see it."

Amariel kept staring sightlessly, touching the glass with her bruised fingertips. "So do I," she said to herself. "So do I."


	5. Chapter 5: Healing

**A/N: Enjoy! Muse is kind of sick...so this chapter might not be as good as I could make it.**

**WARNING: Torture Injuries. Healing themes. If this isn't your squick, skip this chapter.**

* * *

><p><em>The hiss of a whip through the air...<em>

_He arched his back, crying out, a high, keening scream tearing from his lips as the plaited leather strip connected with his bloodied shoulder blades. The pink welts began to split open, and the whip hovered in midair, flicking almost daintily over his torn flesh. He shrieked again when the butt end of the whip was dug deliberately into a large welt, and tried to writhe away. Pain, dull, foggy pain, prickled unpleasantly up from his numb wrists. He was tied to a rafter, toes barely able to touch the ground, his back and shoulders aching from repeated blows and his own weight. And then he heard a voice cry out, Amariel's distraught shouts, and he didn't want to look. He knew what they would do to her, but he also knew that they would leave him alone now that she had their attention. He heard the sound of a whip striking against skin, heard Amariel's sob of pain, and closed his eyes against the bitter tears. He was breaking, every particle of him was shattering into pieces with every blow they inflicted on his friend. _

He shot awake, every inch of him reliving the wounds, the catcalls, the jeers of the men who had brutalized him. He began to cry, silently, hiding his tears in the crook of his elbow as he buried his face in his pillow. The tears burned, sizzled down his cheeks, and his throat felt blocked and raw. He wanted to scream, wanted to sob, and wanted to run all at once. But instead he just lay there, shaking with spasms as he cried, gradually becoming aware that the scent of his pillow was one of mint. The scent was refreshing - crisp, clean, sharp, biting into his senses like the nip of a friendly cat. It was all he could do just to breathe, to hold a breath of air in his lungs and slowly let it out, sipping the air between his teeth. The smell of mint was fragile, skittering completely out of sight at times, other times coming back strong and powerful, overwhelming him in minty smells. He realized dimly that he was warm and comfortable - the mattress beneath him was thick and soft, cradling him like a babe in swaddling cloths. The two quilts on top of him were warming and pocketing him in a hot pouch of body heat. He hadn't been this warm in years - the last time he had been this warm was when he was sent out to the fields to hoe potatoes for one of his Masters. But this was a gentle, loving warmth, and he relished it for a moment, savoring the thickness of the quilts and the downy softness of the mattress. He heard someone stir in the next room and he sat up, blinking hard. The room was dustily dark, shadows painting gauzy shields over objects, making them appear larger and more menacing. He was used to darkness, and his eyes adjusted accordingly. He heard the distinct step of someone, and knew it must be Nimrodel coming to wake him up. The door was knocked on twice, rapped with small knuckles, and he remembered he had locked his door. He scrambled out of bed and unlocked it, trying not to cower. Would he be punished for locking it?

Nimrodel breezed in the room, carrying in a whirlwind of fresh air. Her chestnut hair was loose over her shoulders, and her eyes seemed slightly tired from the day's work. Automatically, Legolas checked her for signs of hard labor. She seemed a little worn out, but her hands were not smeared with blood, her face was not overly pale, and she still had a spring in her step. When she turned to him, blue eyes sparkling, he felt suddenly shy. "You slept well?" she asked, cocking her head a little to the side. Legolas was astonished. She was concerned for his welfare? Why did she want to know if he had slept well? Was she making sure he was strong enough for some brutal task? Seeing that she was waiting for an answer, Legolas spoke up hastily, unused to speaking his mind.

"Ah, y-yes, lady," he stammered. "Very well, thank you." Nimrodel patted his arm, saw that he flinched, and gestured to the curtain.

"Is Amariel up yet? Lord Elrond wants to see both of you." she said.

A cold feeling of dread stole over him, winter chill creeping over frosted ground. Here came the real task - pleasing their new Master. The good food, the warm beds, the new clothes, it had all been a ploy! Even Nimrodel had been lying to him. Amariel had been right - nobody could be trusted. He shied away from her and shook his head silently, steeling himself for what was to come. His wounds still ached, throbbing pain lancing through him like the brands of a hot knife. He didn't want to see anyone - he wanted to curl in a ball and sleep for eternity. Nimrodel frowned at his sudden change in expression, and opened her mouth to say something. At the last minute, she changed her mind and turned, pulling aside the curtain. Amariel, of course, was already up, having heard long ago Nimrodel approaching. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, scarred eyes probing the air with the curious, delicate look of a doctor looking for infection. When Nimrodel came into the room, she stood up and backed off half a step, one hand sightlessly groping behind her to see if there was any obstruction that she might bump into. Nimrodel smiled reassuringly at her. "Amariel, Lord Elrond wishes to see both of you," she said. "Come, it won't take long. He won't hurt you."

_That's what they all say_, Amariel thought, but kept it to herself. She knew the punishment for a slave speaking her mind. Reluctantly, she allowed Nimrodel to lead her by the elbow and went back into Legolas's room to collect the frightened blond ellon. Together, the three of them made their way down the hallway, passing open doorways which showed rooms filled with books, other doors leading straight outside onto a stone walkway, and still other doors showing elaborate dining halls where young ellyn were playing a game of chance. Amariel, naturally, couldn't see all this, but she could smell the clean dusk air, hear the sleepy twitters of retiring birds, and hear the elated shouts of winning ellyn. She gripped Legolas's hand tighter as they went up a set of stairs - stairs had always proved difficult for her to maneuver, but she managed with only a few missteps. Nimrodel led them faultlessly through the winding maze of corridors and pathways, and then finally drew to a stop next to a large, dark, polished door. She knocked on it twice, and there was the deep voice of Elrond answering. "Come!" he called out without opening the door.

Nimrodel opened the door and led Amariel and Legolas inside, prying herself out of Legolas's blood-out-of-stone grip. With a quick little curtsy, she left the room and shut the door behind her. Legolas and Amariel stayed rock still, unsure what to do. Elrond had his back to them, mixing together some ingredients in a small wooden bowl. The familiar _gritch, gritch, gritch_ of a mortal and pestle soon joined the bowl stirrings, and then Elrond turned. He was still wearing his silver robe, but it was unbuttoned and he shrugged it off his shoulders easily. Beneath, it was a simple white tunic which left his forearms exposed, and Legolas realized with a flame of terror that Elrond was broad-shouldered, wide-chested, and very imposing. But his gray eyes were concerned and kind. "Relax, little one," he soothed. "I am here to check your wounds."

Amariel squeezed Legolas's hand in a message for him to keep silent. She swallowed. "May I have permission to speak, Lord?" she said in a soft voice. Elrond frowned, still angry that they always had to ask permission to speak. Elves did not come by this naturally, he thought furiously. They had been beaten and whipped into these cringing elves that couldn't speak unless ordered.

"You may always speak," he ordered quietly, firmly. "Never allow anyone to tell you that you cannot."

Amariel licked her lips dryly. "My wounds are not serious, my lord, but please, if it pleases your Grace, would you set my companion's foot? He has injured it on the trails, and it is giving him trouble." she said in a half-whisper, almost expecting to be struck for her impertinence. Legolas looked at her, horror-stricken. She had just passed him over to this stranger, given him willingly, to a person neither of them knew! He backed away from Elrond, who made a soothing motion with his hands.

"I will not hurt you, child," he said in Common. "Here, sit. I shall bandage your foot." Legolas sat down shakily on a comfortable divan, his leg hovering in midair. Elrond gathered his ingredients from the desk and knelt before his foot, long, dexterous fingers unsnapping the ties on his boots. Gently, he worked the boot off the foot, and had to swallow back a growl of rage when he saw the bruised, swollen toes, and the mottled skin of his ankle. It was bent at a peculiar angle, indicating that it had been sprained quite badly, and he examined it with the feather-light touch of an experienced healer. Legolas whimpered slightly, but Elrond left the foot alone and reached for his herbs. He crumbled a few of them into a chalice of warm water and handed it to Legolas. "Drink," he ordered. "It is a potion to numb to pain." Tentatively, he drank it down in three gulps, then put it aside and watched Elrond fearfully. The Lord of Imaldris moved quickly, assuredly, his movements confident and his touches light. He knew exactly what he was doing. A long strip of bandage was sprinkled liberally with a paste of some sort of liquid, and then he began wrapping Legolas's foot tightly. Another strip was added to the damp one, this one perfectly dry. The bandage was neat and tight, and the pain was lessening, both from the potion and from the proper bandage. Elrond looked at him in the eyes. "Do you have any other injuries you wish me to look at?" he asked carefully. He didn't want to frighten the ellon, but if he had injuries that needed tending, he would heal them without a moment's hesitation.

Legolas glanced at Amariel, quaking. Amariel couldn't see the expression on his face, but she knew he must be terrified. She nodded once, and he swallowed. "M-my back," he said in a whisper. Elrond's gaze never wavered, calm gray eyes looking straight at Legolas's stricken blue ones.

"Will you take your tunic off for me, child?" he asked in a slow, soothing tone. Legolas gulped and gathered the hem of his tunic, pulling it over his head and piling it next to him. This, of course, revealed the unnatural scars, the bad chafing up and down his wrists, the angry red welt on his neck, the bruises scattering his body. But his back was the worst - white scars crossed his back, but fresh wounds, only slightly scabbed, were marring the delicate flesh. Elrond set his teeth and carefully lay the ellon on his stomach, holding his shoulder lightly to soothe him. Legolas was shaking like his namesake in a stiff autumn breeze, and Elrond made a few soothing noises in the back of his throat. Elrond dipped his fingers into his concoction that was in the wooden bowl and began rubbing it against the fresh wounds. Legolas jumped, and then slowly allowed Elrond to work the potion into his torn skin, the pain slowly ebbing into numbness as the potions began to work. He felt sleepy - naturally sleepy, not drug-induced, and he fought to stay awake. With the pain releasing him from its hatefully fiery fingers, sleep was demanding his attention. He hardly noticed when Elrond sat him up to roll several long strips of bandages around his torso and helped him lace his tunic back on. "Keep your foot elevated," he instructed the nodding-off ellon. "Do not get out of bed tomorrow - I shall instruct Elrohir to bring you a tray of food."

Amariel had stood still as a rock during all these proceedings, and went stiff as a board when Elrond approached her. She sensed Legolas's tired complacency, and instantly panicked, thinking he had been drugged. She fought back tears as Elrond turned her cheek with his hand. "And what about you? Do you have an injury that needs tending?" he asked. She shook her head frantically, backing away, the block in her throat preventing her from speaking. She stumbled backwards and cried out a little, her hand going upwards to protect her face. Elrond caught her wrist and examined it, seeing the deep chafing, worse than Legolas's. "You were dragged," he said, voice slightly hoarse with horror. "You were bound to a horse and dragged."

She shook her head, lying through her teeth. "No, my lord, please," she whispered. Elrond led her over to the divan where Legolas had sat and carefully rolled back her sleeves. He crumbled a handful of dried leaves into another goblet of warm water and handed it to her.

"Drink this," he said. "It's the same potion I gave your friend."

Amariel took a reckless chance. "My lord...please, I do not like potions. They do not agree with me. I can...I can take whatever you give me." _This is it_, she said to herself. He will surely punish her now. But he said nothing, merely set the goblet aside and began bandaging her wrists. He was efficient and swift, hardly touching her injuries, and the soothing poultice he used was cooling her burning wounds. The bruise on her hip was her most agitated area, but she wasn't about to show him herself yet. However, it appeared she didn't have a choice.

"Amariel, I must see your wounds," Elrond said firmly. "I shall not touch you, but if you need care, then I must do it. There are female healers, if you prefer, but it will take time for them to get here. If you wish, I can quickly heal you and then wait for a more thorough healer in the morning."

It was this, more than anything, that convinced her. The fact that he had _asked_ - not a soul had asked her opinion about anything in almost seventy years. So she permitted him to unlace her bodice and examine the welts and bruises, the deep scars and harsh burns, particularly the deep on on her right side that showed where she had been crudely branded with a torch when she was hardly older than fifty. The oil he used on her bruise heated the skin, creating a pleasant warmth that soothed the scarred flesh, and he applied a few cooler salves on the deep scars above her breasts. There were so many scars, so many markings of suffering and pain, he wondered how she had survived. More swaths of bandages were applied, and she consented to drink the goblet of liquid after almost half an hour of careful healing. She, as well, felt slow and sleepy, the pain seemingly distant, like a balloon hovering over her head. When she was dressed and carefully righted again, she stumbled slightly and reached out automatically for Legolas to help her. Instead of Legolas's cold, scarred, clammy hand, she felt a calloused, warm one catching her and holding her stable. She squirmed under his touch, disliking the feeling of male hands on her person, unless they were Legolas's. She stepped away from him and she heard the door open. Nimrodel came inside, talking nonsense about getting to bed, it was late, they would eat a good breakfast in the morning.

She missed the look of pity that Elrond was giving her.


	6. Chapter 6: It Sounds Perfect

**A/N: Enjoy! Muse is still on vacation - so I had to write this chapter with zero inspiration. Please review - it gives the Muse a reason to come back. **

**WARNING: Some pretty bone-chilling descriptions. **

* * *

><p>She didn't know where she was for a split second, and then knew instantly with the force of a storm. She sat, cursing herself under her breath, and groped blindly for a familiar landmark. Her first few nights in a new room always disoriented her, and she didn't move until her wandering fingers brushed against her nightstand. Her compass thus fixed, she stood hesitantly and moved in what she thought was the direction of the curtain. Unfortunately, she went in the opposite direction and shifted herself into a hard block of sunlight. Instantly she stopped, transfixed. Even when her sight had been in her possession, she had always loved the feeling of the sun on her face. Now it was bittersweet - her senses were heightened due to her lack of sight, so the sun felt warmer than it actually was, but she couldn't see the glittering dust motes or see the large golden orb stretch long beams of light across the sky. She could feel the breeze through the open window, felt it stir her dark matted hair, but she couldn't see the silver side of the leaves as they flipped over in the stiff wind. She could smell the orchards, the scents of ripe apples tickling her nose, but she couldn't see the succulent red fruit striking out against the fading green leaves. She could feel the grain of the windowsill beneath her bruised fingertips, but she couldn't see what color it was, couldn't see if the pattern was honey-brown or deep-russet. She didn't cry over these things - they were memories, tangible and sharp, nostalgia nipping the back of her mind, but she no longer pined for sight. She made do with what she had, adapted quickly to the changes around her. At a hundred and six years of age, she was barely matured and had seen more than she cared to see. Now her lack of sight was almost a blessing. She couldn't see the ugly grimaces on her Master's faces, couldn't see them hit her until their palm connected with her cheek. She laid a hot palm against the cool glass and rested her forehead against the slick surface. The warm sun heated her face and she allowed it to, if only for a brief moment. Then she groped her way over to the curtain, pulling it open.<p>

Legolas pushed himself up on an elbow, squinting as Amariel entered the room. His injured foot had been neatly and firmly bandaged, and it was propped up on a cushion. The extra quilts and pillows Elrond had given him had been a delicious luxury, and he had enjoyed a restful night's sleep. He looked at Amariel - she had deep smudges beneath her scarred eyes and her cheeks were pale. He yawned, stretching his shoulders, and moved to get up. Amariel stopped him with a quick word. "Don't," she warned. "He said not to move from bed today, remember?" she reminded him. Legolas sank back among the cushions.

"I'm not used to this," he admitted. "Why are they being so kind to us?"

"Because they pity us," Amariel said, feeling her way over to Legolas's bed and sitting down on the edge. He felt the mattress dip where she sat, and watched her play with the hem of her skirt. "They pity us because of our injuries." She sighed and felt the sunlight trickle over her shoulders and warm her back. "Perhaps they will allow me to work today. There has to be _some_ ulterior motive, something they want. I intent to find out what it is, and when I do, I shall do it quickly and get whatever unpleasant task over with as soon as possible."

"I wish I could understand the language they speak," Legolas said, half-closing his eyes. "It sounds beautiful. Say something in that language. Go on. I heard you speaking it to him last night. You sounded like you were singing."

"I wasn't singing, Legolas," Amariel said. "I was telling him to set your foot. It needed healing, and...well.." She paused. How could she explain this? "I wanted to test him. To see if he would actually help us instead of hurt us."

"And you used me as your bait?" Legolas asked, stung.

"I wasn't about to use me!" Amariel snapped. "As you may have noticed, I can't _see_. I can't see his expressions - you can."

"He's handsome," Legolas said unexpectedly. This caught Amariel completely off guard.

"What?" she asked, bewildered. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"I thought you ought to know," Legolas said. "He's handsome. And tall. With dark hair and gray eyes. He has a funny way of looking at people." He described, trying to remember the details about the powerfully built, imposing Lord of Imaldris. "And he wears the finest clothes. He looked sad while he bandaged your wrists, like he was going to cry."

"Rubbish," Amariel sneered. "He doesn't sound like a man - elf - who cries."

"Amariel, what does his name mean?" Legolas asked. Amariel looked at him. That was two unexpected questions in as many seconds.

"Whose?" she asked. Legolas closed his eyes completely.

"You said once that my name means 'green leaves'. What does Elrond mean?" Legolas asked. "In Elvish, I mean."

"Star dome," Amariel answered. "As though it were stars in the sky. That's what Elrond means. But it doesn't matter."

"What does your name mean?" Legolas asked, his voice low and slightly hoarse. He sounded as though he were falling asleep. Amariel rubbed his leg through the blanket.

"It means 'earth'. It's a plain name. Go to sleep, hin nin," she whispered. "That means 'my child'."

Legolas didn't answer. He was fast asleep.

For a long moment, she just stayed at his bedside, wondering what he looked like. He was probably a handsome ellon - his mother had been the most beautiful elleth she had ever seen. Long, beautiful flaxen locks with soft green eyes that went warm and gentle whenever they looked at you. She remembered Legolas as a babe, a youngling less than twenty years old, sobbing and crying as his mother was jerked roughly from him. Amariel swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. Leina. That had been his mother's name. She tried to keep the tears back, but she couldn't. Leina had been heavy with another child when they sold her, and to this day Amariel wondered where the child ended up, if it had survived. She didn't think so. Leina had been beautiful, prettier than any elleth Amariel had ever seen. Women - especially ellith - never lasted long. Their bodies were taxed to the extreme almost constantly, and it took a special kind of girl to survive it. Amariel had only been introduced to the horrors of that particular abuse before she had been blinded - the scar seemed to offset most men. Occasionally, to punish her, they would turn her over to a tavernkeeper to pay for a night, but more often than not the tavernkeeper would finish quickly and send her to sleep by the fire. Most didn't touch her at all, and insisted the men pay them in gold. Amariel rubbed the bridge of her nose. Somehow, after Leina's sale, Legolas had become attached to her. She began looking after him, taking care that she shared some of her food with the child and trying to keep him out of sight from the slavers. Through fate or by the will of the Valar, she had managed to keep him by her for many long years. At eighty two years old, Legolas should be running around wooing ellith and hunting, staying out late on patrols with senechals and generally causing a ruckus. But she doubted he would do that. At her age, she should be settling down and bonding, but what ellon would want a blind elleth with hundreds of scars, who was terrified of ellyn?

There was a soft knock at the door, disrupting Amariel's dark thoughts, and she turned towards the noise. A subtle creak alerted her to the door opening, and she tried to tell who it was. Without sight, it was impossible until whoever it was spoke. But Legolas sat up straight and shied away slightly, shifting his weight towards the wall. "My lord?" he asked in a raspy voice, haggard from sleep. Amariel got to her feet and backed up, not wanting to anger whoever it was who had stepped inside. To her surprise, she heard a low laugh.

"Shy little ones, aren't you?" came an unfamiliar voice. The tread was lighter than Elrond's, yet heavier than Nimrodel's, and his voice was rich and contained a low chuckle in it. "Don't worry, I'm not here to drag you out and put you to work. I came bearing breakfast." There was a pause, and Amariel felt the stranger's eyes on her. "Come, little one, I won't bite. Come eat. My name is Glorfindel - no doubt you were expecting one of the twins, the little demons. They're cleaning out the storerooms, by order of their Ada. Apparently Elladan thought it would be charming to organize a little surprise for Elrond in his study. But I'm rambling - come, I promise the food isn't poisoned." He sounded boisterous and friendly, and slightly careless. Amariel took a few hesitant steps towards the bed and sank to her knees, crossing her ankles and bowing her head. Glorfindel, or whatever his name was, laughed. "Reverence is appreciated, but unnecessary," he said, and took her hand, helping her to her feet. "Sit on the bed, and eat some of these eggs before I do."

A warm plate was put in her lap, and she smelled the sizzling scent of meat, eggs, and mushrooms. Gingerly she picked up her fork and dug into it, wondering if the food was always going to be this tasty. The meat - which she discovered to be a kind of boar sausage - was piping hot and very spicy, while the mushrooms were buttery smooth and deliciously meaty. The eggs were perfect, fluffy and salty, with a few crisp triangles of toasted bread to go with it. Everything was hot and savoury. "Thank you," she said uncertainly. "I don't know how to say how grateful I am." she said truthfully. She hadn't had food this good in decades.

"I didn't exactly wrestle the boar and pluck the eggs from the sky," Glorfindel said. "Stop being so appreciative - you'll swell my ego until Elrond comes along and pops it. Speaking of my friend, he wishes to see you later." he added, directed to Amariel. Her fork clattered against the rim of her plate.

"W-what about?" Amariel stammered, hands automatically folding across her lap, shoulders going tense. Glorfindel noticed this right off.

"Stop looking like you're going to a beheading," he said lightly. "He said to tell you he wishes to do something about your hair. He says its a fright - and I must add, it looks most unbecoming on you when you tuck it into your shirt like that." His tone was airy and jesting, and Amariel didn't know whether he was serious or not.

"It keeps it out of my eyes," Amariel said. Glorfindel raised an eyebrow - but of course she couldn't see that. She could, however, sense his skepticism. "It gets into whatever I'm working on if I don't tuck it back," she said. Talking this freely was addicting and terrifying at the same time. The ellon seemed delighted he had drawn her into a conversation.

"Well, when your hair is properly washed and cut, we can see about putting it back in a braid of some sort, or perhaps up by your neck. Most ellith wear their hair in a pile on their heads, but Lord Elrond and I both prefer our ellith with their hair down." he added with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows that Amariel couldn't see. Amariel smiled in spite of herself. The ellon sounded as though he was forty. He tapped her plate with his fork. "Now eat, before I eat it for you."

She took a bite, and Glorfindel turned to Legolas. "Erestor, a friend of mine, will be in later to help you study Elvish." he said. Legolas's glassy blue eyes flickered upwards once, hopefully.

"I can - I can speak it?" he said, sounding delighted, bewildered, and astonished all at once. Glorfindel laughed, a rich rumble that reverberated from his chest.

"Well, you ought to learn, seeing as you're the only elf I've met who can't speak his own language. Erestor is a patient teacher - you'll like him." Glorfindel said, and then turned to Amariel again, who had subsided to picking at her food. "Shall we go?"

* * *

><p>"I hate stairs," Amariel mumbled to herself, under her breath, as she took the first one with extreme caution. She felt Glorfindel's warm laugh ripple down his chest.<p>

"Then you'll just have to trust me, won't you?" he said. He took her hand with his, allowing her fingers to drape over his fist. "Relax. Follow the sound of my voice."

She took a moment to get her bearings, and then began descending the steps with a fluidity and confidence that belied her lack of sight. He watched her, her dress wrinkled from sleeping in it for two days, and shook his head. "We'll get you some new dresses," he promised, "and some new boots. Hopefully, when your wounds heal up, I'll be able to take you out riding. The weather is beautiful for a good, bracing ride."

"On horses?" she asked hesitantly, wondering if it were possible. She lived in constant fear of the beasts ever since she had been penned inside a barn with two wild colts for a single night. She had emerged, terrified and covered in bruises, unable to dodge out of the way of their frantic hoofbeats. Glorfindel arched an eyebrow.

"No, on gryphons, but we can start with dragons if you like," he said with a bite of good humor in his voice. "Yes, on horses, silly elleth. But for now, I'll content myself with making you look more like the pretty elleth you are and less like a street rat." She stopped stock still on the stairs, only three steps from the bottom. He looked up at her quizzically. "What?"

"Don't call me that," she said, her voice very low. "Call me anything you want, but not a rat. Please, my lord, not that." She ducked her head, tears brimming her eyes. She sniffed discreetly and scuffed at her eyes with her wrist. Glorfindel was at her side in a moment. He touched a finger to her cheek.

"Please, the fault is mine," he said softly. "I didn't realize you felt so strongly. I meant it in jest, nothing further. I promise that you will look nothing less than a princess when Elrond and I finish with you." He waited a moment, and then continued. "Your friend will have the same treatment once his foot heals up and he's able to walk. Right now, Lady Arwen - she's Elrond's daughter - is going through some of her old dresses to see if any will fit you."

Amariel followed him numbly, unable to believe she had spoken up like that. What was wrong with her? Usually, she would have bitten her tongue and taken whatever insult they had given her, but being called a rat - ugh! Those hairy, crawling, slithering, whiskered things made her blood go ice cold. She could still see the glowing yellow eyes and those curved white fangs, their ugly little wet snouts poking from crevices and their claws scraping across her lap as they dragged their bald tails behind them. She suppessed the wave of bile that rose up, unbidden, from the back of her throat. Cellars and dungeons had rats in abundance, and it was in these dark, dreary places that slaves were kept. She had seen rats chew on dead children before they had gone cold, saw their yellow eyes glittering triumphantly as they curled their snakelike tails around them and held chunks of meat in their paws. She shuddered. Glorfindel, noticing this but wisely electing not to say a word, butted open a door with the heel of his hands. "Arwen! Lady Arwen, are you decent?" he called out merrily.

The voice that responded was musical and light, rippling shade over a dappled brook. "Glorfindel, old friend, of course I'm decent. I'm not the type to run around in nothing but my nightgown - that would be the twins, and they're scrubbing out the kitchens if you wish to speak with them." This was followed by a tinkling laugh that sounded like bells - round and sweet, a confection of sound. "Oh, this must be the little elleth Ada has told me so much about," said the pretty voice, this time much closer. Amariel drew back a little, wondering whether or not to bow. Glorfindel, almost as if he'd read her mind, spoke up.

"Lady Arwen, our friend here has taken a liking to kneeling in front of people she believes to be her superiors. Do not be alarmed if she kisses your hand as well," Glorfindel said. Amariel flamed red and Arwen made a face at Glorfindel. He grinned and changed the subject. "Is your Ada here?"

"No, Ada is getting something for Erestor to bring to her friend," Arwen explained, silver eyes roaming over the dejected little elleth in front of her. She was young, a frightened little thing, with stick-thin bones and ruthlessly scarred eyes. The rest of her face was fair enough, Arwen mused, with a little dimple beneath her bottom lip and cheeks that would have been plump and round, save that she was so skinny. The clothes she was wearing was a simple skirt and bodice, but it looked so dreadfully large on her that it seemed as though she were swimming in material. Her blinded eyes were glued to the floor, and Arwen felt a surge of pity. "Glorfindel, bring her over here so we can do something about her hair," Arwen said, eyeing the dark, matted hair clinging to the younger elleth's nape. Obediently, Amariel allowed herself to be seated on a low chair, her head tilted back. "Glorfindel, could you fetch me some of those scented oils and those soaps over there on my bed?"

"Ah, I knew you would invite me into your bedroom one of these days, lady," Glorfindel said, swaggering out of the room with mock dignity. Arwen laughed, that sweet sound bubbling from her throat again. She bent over Amariel, kneeling at her shoulders, and Amariel felt Arwen's dark hair brush across her neck.

"Ellyn," Arwen said, in a confidential, elleth-to-elleth tone. "They think all ellith only wish to throw themselves at them." When Amariel remaned quiet, Arwen's gaze softened. "I don't know your name," she said. "What is it? I am called Arwen - I believe you've met my ada, Lord Elrond."

"Amariel," she said quietly. "My name is Amariel. I have met your ada - he is a very kind man."

Glorfindel came back with the oils and soaps, and Arwen got to her feet. "Glorfindel, would you wash her hair for me?" she asked. Glorfindel fell to the ground by Amariel's chair, clasping a hand dramatically to his brow.

"Ah, the ellyn must do all the work around here," he said, complaining in a laughing tone. He bent Amariel's head back further and immersed her scalp in the warm water. Arwen's voice sounded muffled, as though she were digging through clothing.

"If you'd rather go through my old dresses and see which ones are suitable," she added. "Then you're welcome to it." Glorfindel made a face.

"Washing hair is my speciality, milady," he said, and his whisper brushed against Amariel's temple. "Personally, she just doesn't wish to get her hands wet. Lady Arwen has a fear of water."

"I heard that!"

"Heard what?" Glorfindel asked innocently. Amariel barely heard their conversation - Glorfindel's long fingers rubbing soap into her hair was absolute heaven. The hot water in the bucket must be getting filthy, Amariel thought shamefacedly. She had tried to wash her hair, but it had been difficult by herself.

Arwen came back with a pile of dresses in her arms. "I'm not afraid of water," she said, pretending to be cross. "But I found some lovely dresses, Amariel. When Glorfindel finishes with your hair, we shall try them on. Does that sound all right?"

Amariel could barely get the words out of her throat. She didn't know why she was tearing up all of a sudden. "Yes, it sounds..." she groped for a suitable word. What word, she thought, could express her gratitude in one syllable? What word could she use?

"That sounds perfect."


	7. Chapter 7: Lessons and Dresses

Legolas lay back among the cushions, still shaking from Glorfindel's unexpected visit. He didn't like surprises, and having a stranger come in bearing breakfast had nearly upset him to the point of tears. He still didn't know what to do - should he bow when they came through the door? They insisted that he not call them 'sire' or 'lord', but he hadn't called anybody anything else. Except his mother. He hardly remembered her - he did have a vague memory of her singing to him, but even that was tainted by a choked voice and the dark noises around them. Darkness and loss was all he knew, and he didn't want to gain any happiness only to lose it again. He and Amariel had both had their share of Masters, Amariel more so than him, for she was older. A few of them had been mildly tolerable, and only one had been fair. Most had treated him as though he were invisible, expecting him to foresee their commands and most likely beating him when he did not comply with them. Many of them had been fantastically cruel, but there had been quiet spots in his long, painful life. Amariel was one of them.

She used to tell him about his mother, speak poetry about her beautiful face and figure, weave tales about her sweet singing voice. Legolas could sing as well - one of his old Masters had suffered harsh headaches and promoted Legolas to Head Entertainer. This meant that Legolas knew how to play the harp and the lyre, and Amariel had taught him a few songs to sing. She said he had inherited his mother's singing voice, and it was like listening to Leina all over again. She said that Leina had green eyes like leaves coming out in spring, and her hair was as golden as the rays of the sun. He figured this was a pretty story to cheer him up, but it was nice to imagine that he might have had a pretty mother. Certainly he had wondered about his parents, fantasizing that he was related to royalty and that his majestic father would whisk him away from all the pain and the hurt. But over the years, even that fantasy dimmed to an almost nonexistent spark, and he contented himself by doing his work and trying to stay in Amariel's shadow.

There was a smart rap on the door, and Legolas almost jumped out of his skin. How long had he been lying here, thinking? Surely he would be punished for staying in bed this long! He was about to get out of bed and start cringing, when the door opened and an ellon stepped inside. He was tall and slender, with cool blue eyes and a queer way of looking at things, as though he were flicking furtive glances from the corner of his vision. Several thick tomes were stacked in his arms, and when he set them down on the nightstand they made a soft thump. A quick little grin shimmered at the corner of his mouth. "Mae govannen, Legolas," he said with that queer little look. "I am Erestor, a friend of Lord Elrond. I've come to teach you Elvish, little one."

"Th-thank you," Legolas said, every muscle freezing like a hare caught in a trap. Erestor seemed nice enough, and he sat a respectable distance away on the bed, but he didn't like being alone with people. Amariel had always been the braver of the two, and without her help he felt as weak as a newborn bird. Erestor arched one dark eyebrow at his quivering, but said nothing and instead reached for a book. His actions were as quick as his eyes were - they flickered through pages lightly, as though stroking hidden notes in the air that only he could see, and then he found what he was looking for.

"I thought I'd start off with a few useful phrases," Erestor said calmly, his cool blue eyes scanning the pages. Legolas saw by straining his neck that the calligraphy on the pages were beautifully intricate, swirling letters and runes that made no sense to him whatsoever. His reading skills were rusty, to say the least, but he did have a basic grasp of them. However, these runes were in Elvish, and therefore he saw nothing but pretty lines and shapes. "'Mae Govannen' means 'Well met', and we traditionally use it as a greeting. Try saying that."

"Mae…Mae Govannen," Legolas fumbled. Erestor nodded once, silent praise for his pupil. Legolas stopped him. "Wait, this is … safe … right? We aren't going to be punished for this?" His voice sank to a half whisper. Erestor frowned.

"Yes, it's perfectly allowed," he said slowly. Elrond had warned him of the slaves' tendency to be wary of rules, but this was ridiculous. "Some elves have trouble speaking Common, and you need to know your initial language. You did not grow up learning Common at your mother's knee."

"Yes, I did," Legolas said, and instantly cowered slightly, horrified that he had corrected him. But instead of striking him, Erestor cocked his head a little and looked at him with that strange, searching gaze.

"How do you mean?" Erestor asked. Legolas fidgeted.

"Amariel … Amariel told me about my mother," Legolas mumbled, a blush coloring his cheeks. "She said that Leina - that was my mother's name - didn't speak Elvish to me. She only taught me Common. Amariel tried to teach me a few words, but I don't remember that many."

"Your mother's name was Leina?" Erestor asked, his voice rising a notch. "Are you very, very sure?"

Legolas hid his face and tried to stop the hot tears. "No, I'm not!" he cried. "I'm sorry, ask Amariel! Please, don't shout at me!"

Erestor's cool eyes softened, and he stroked Legolas's hair. "Shh, little one," he soothed. "You startled me. I know a Leina - or rather, I did." He twisted his mouth in a sour expression. "We had a … disagreement. She traveled to Mirkwood before I could set it right. What did your mother look like?"

Legolas sniffled, comforted by Erestor's soothing touch. "I-I don't remember much," he admitted softly. "Amariel remembers her best. She said she had green eyes like leaves coming out in spring, and golden hair like the sun."

Erestor sat back, his head spinning. Was it possible that Legolas's mother was the elleth he had pursued so relentlessly at youth?

09

"And … come out!"

Amariel held onto Arwen's arm, trying not to grip so hard. She had no idea how she looked, but judging by the way Glorfindel and Arwen were cooing over her, the dress must be spectacular. Her hair felt much different - the mats and tangles had to be cut out, and Glorfindel proved himself remarkably adept at cutting female hairstyles. Arwen had added a few aesthetic braids, but Amariel's hair was much shorter than most of the other ellith around Imladris. Her scarred eyes blinked once at the sound of a whistle, and blushed to the roots of her hair when Arwen said "Glorfindel! Stop looking at her in that fashion!" Amariel was used to men looking at her like that, but somehow it felt different coming from an ellyn. Perhaps there was hope after all. The next sound nearly shocked her out of her skin.

"Ah, and I see that our trembling little elleth has become a queen at last," said a deep, measured voice somewhere off to Amariel's left. She turned in the direction of the sound, and drew back a little towards Arwen. The beautiful elleth ran up to her ada and kissed him soundly on both cheeks.

"Ada! Does she not look wonderful?" Arwen said, tugging her ada over to Amariel. Amariel's blind eyes did not catch the flare in Elrond's normally brisk gray eyes as he examined her. She was dressed in a pale silver gown, white embroidery on the sleeves and hem, and it was tastefully ruffled and trimmed to hide the majority of her scars. Her scarred eyes were downcast, but a thick fringe of dark hair fell in her eyes and shadowed her face, masking a few scars by her temple. The new clothes and haircut made a world of difference. She was almost pretty, if not far too thin. As if reading his mind, Arwen continued. "She's a bit underfed, but a few weeks in the kitchens should have her right as rain. I'll make a few gowns of her own, but for now she and I can share dresses with each other. We're almost the same size, so we thought it might work."

Elrond took Amariel's hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "You look lovely," he said. She shivered a little under his touch, resisting the urge to pull away. He couldn't believe what she was wearing. The dress had once belonged to Celebrian, and then given to Arwen. Apparently his daughter had forgotten where it came from and had dressed Amariel in it. The searing pain of his missing wife was gone, blunted by years, but he remembered her in that dress. She had been so beautiful, her long golden hair rippling over her back, those laughing blue eyes smirking at him from the silvery snow, her long gloves and thick white coat keeping her warm in the piles of frosty ice. She had been amazingly, immensely beautiful. She had been stunning. The scars which had been so skillfully hidden now emerged on his face as he struggled with his emotions. Glorfindel, noting this, broke in wonderfully.

"I wasn't sure about silver," Glorfindel said quickly, "Seeing as she's so dreadfully pale. But sire, are all of those treaties signed in your office?"

"Treaties?" Arwen asked, confused. "What treaties?"

"Dozens," Glorfindel said, covering Elrond's bewildered state. "Come, old friend, lets go see to them together." Glorfindel hurried his friend out into the hall, leaving Amariel and Arwen to change and play with more dresses. When they were safely out of earshot, Glorfindel turned sharply to Elrond. "Elrond, she meant no harm," he began. Elrond took a steadying breath.

"I realize that," Elrond said, setting his teeth. "But…Eru, I loved that dress." His gray eyes were cold and tight as he swallowed hard. "I will never heal, old friend," Elrond said softly. "I miss her too much."

"Healing does not happen when we are numb," Glorfindel said. "Healing only comes during the pain. Slowly, day by day, you'll feel more instead of less. You'll be fine, my friend."

"Yes," Elrond said slowly, "Perhaps."

09

**A/N: I decided to start putting my Author's Notes down here so not to interrupt the flow of the story. Sorry for the short chapter, but I hope you liked the little plot twist with Erestor! Please review - I decided I haven't been showing you guys enough luv, so I'm going to start thanking you in my A/N's. :D Enjoy!**


	8. AUTHORS NOTE

**IMPORTANT:**

**I'm really sorry. I'm afraid my muse has completely vanished with a recent scathing review I recieved for absolutely no reason at all. My inspiration has been flickering for a while, as I'm sure you've noticed, but now it's gone completely. I'm really sorry for this, but I'm putting Well Behaved Women and my Authors series in hold while I try and find my muse and shake off this awful flame. I'm sort of sensitive about my writing - my parents never supported it - so any resistance (especially cruel resistance) is very hurtful to me. I know I'm a good writer, but this has really taken the edge off my skills lately. **

**I am trying to work on a new story that might perk up my muse, somewhere in the Hunchback of Notre Dame fandom. But right now, Lord of the Rings has fizzled and died.**

**Lovingly,**

**Emma.**

**P.S. bahumbuggeryduggery, GO SCREW A GOAT! :'(**


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